


Although It’s Been Said Many Times, Many Ways

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5b spoilers, Angst, Christmas, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Reconciliation, Sharing a Bed, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-05-03 00:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5270063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s going to be the second Christmas in Scott’s working memory that he and Stiles spend apart. He doesn't know how to cope with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'The Christmas Song'. I can only apologise for this fic.

It’s going to be the second Christmas in Scott’s working memory that they spend apart. The first was when he was eleven. His dad insisted he go spend it with him in Sunnyvale, but then landed a huge case he couldn’t back down from, so Scott spent it entirely by himself, half overjoyed to be apart from his dad, and half miserable about being separated from his family in Beacon Hills. Separated from Stiles.

Scott doesn’t know how to cope with it. 

He’s gotten Stiles and his dad presents, because he _always_ gets or makes them presents. The wrapped packages sit, forlornly, under his bed. 

Usually by now he and Stiles would’ve started some kind of gingerbread construction; last year it was a lacrosse field, because all the other inspiration they had was too dark and morbid. Scott would be hanging homemade decorations in both their houses. Stiles would be planning out Christmas day to the second. Scott wonders if he’d still try to trick Melissa and John into kissing under the mistletoe like he has since they were twelve. He never could explain to Stiles why he purposely foiled his schemes every year. Did a great job of making it seem like innocent, accidental interference.

Scott feels empty without the hustle and bustle, without the connection. His mom took one look at him this morning and gave him a hug. 

And he knows he’s doing the right thing, distancing himself from Stiles. He knows he has to make it clear that their relationship isn’t working the way it’s supposed to. He shouldn’t forgive Stiles in a heartbeat. Except he thinks he already has. 

It’s all too easy to see things from Stiles’ perspective, to make excuses and feel like he has to be the one to protect Stiles and stop him from self-sabotaging. But Stiles hasn’t frequently made the same concessions for him. Certainly not recently. So he tries not to dwell on it, tries to tamp that side of him down, tries to show himself that same kindness.

It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

Christmas day comes and Scott and his mom sit on the couch eating Chinese food, rewatching classic movies. Scott does his best to be joyous and grateful and light - does everything he can to mask the fact he’s mourning. His mom doesn’t call him up on the shitty job he’s doing. She offers him his sixth fortune cookie and lets him rest his head on her lap. 

There’s a knock at the front door and Scott instantly knows who’s behind it. He thinks about hiding, but his bike’s in the driveway and he’s bigger than that, so he moves with calm determination and answers. 

Stiles is standing on the step with his hands clutching a couple of small, red boxes. He stares at Scott as if disbelieving he’s there.

“Hi, Scotty.”

“Hey.”

“I know you’re still mad at me. And I’m trying to respect that you need space. But I got these for you and Melissa and I – it felt wrong. Not to give them to you.”

Scott hasn’t seen Stiles like this with him before. Awkward. Hesitant. Like he isn’t sure of anything between them. Other people would probably describe Stiles as a nervy kinda guy. Hell, Stiles would say he’s insecure. But while he can be those things, he’s always acted confident, always had an inner strength that belies his words. Scott’s wondered more than once which is the lie in the contradiction.

“I’m not mad at you,” Scott says, taking Stiles’ presents and placing them carefully to the side, because he’s not. This isn’t about anger. “I told you that.”

“You’re disappointed in me. That’s even worse.”

“Do you listen at all?” Scott has to ask, crossing his arms against his chest. It’s a protective gesture more than an aggressive one. “I’m not angry, I’m not disappointed. I’m exhausted. I need someone in my life who’s going to put me first. That’s not you. It probably shouldn’t even have to be. But I’m drained, Stiles, and I can’t do this anymore. Not right now. Maybe not for a long while.”

He expects anger. Confusion. Bitterness. He doesn’t expect Stiles’ eyes to go red-rimmed. For his hands to twist uselessly by his sides.

“Who says that can’t be me?” Stiles asks, so softly Scott has to fine tune his senses to hear each word. 

“You. More than once. You’ve shown me that it’s too much responsibility for you. You get torn between your duty to your dad, and your self-preservation, and I’m an afterthought. And I get that. I do. But it’s the burden you expect me to bear. You don’t seem to care when I’m torn between my mom and my pack and _my_ self-preservation. So. I understand it, but I just can’t. I can’t be your savior if I can’t be allowed to save myself.”

Scott looks down at his feet, his throat tight and his eyes stinging. This may be the most words he said in one go in weeks. 

Stiles’ voice sounds wet when he speaks. “Couldn’t you have told me this before?”

Scott feels like his breath is sucked out of him in a swift blow. “I shouldn’t have to.”

“I know,” Stiles says. “I _know_ , but I’m kind of an idiot and I needed you to spell it out for me. Now, it’s been spelled, loud and clear, national competition style. I don’t need any more definitions for the words shitty friend.”

There’s a long pause. Scott can’t think of anything more to say. He’s out of phrases. Out of verbs and nouns and adjectives.

“Will you wait?” Scott asks. He looks back toward the house, thinking about the presents under his bed.

“I’d wait forever for you,” Stiles says, the conviction in his tone drawing Scott’s attention. Scott finds it difficult to tear his gaze away once he looks into Stiles’ eyes.

“No, that’s not – I got you and John presents too,” he explains. He turns around and bounds up the stairs before Stiles can respond. It’s possible he’ll be gone by the time Scott returns. Scott takes an extra long time retrieving the gifts, just in case.

He isn’t. Stiles is leaning against the front of the house, wiping at the tears on his cheeks. His nose is red and streaming. 

Scott hates his overdeveloped conscience. When he was half-broken and partially dead, Stiles took a swipe at him, slammed him against a wall, screamed in his face. When Stiles so much as cries, Scott just wants to hold him tight and keep him sheltered and safe. 

Scott hands over the presents, hating how his heart skips when their fingers brush. 

“Is there anything I could do to prove to you that I’ll change?” Stiles asks, clutching the presents against his side. He’s frowning slightly, has obviously been worrying his lower lip. It’s a bright splash of pink in his pale face; distracting as hell.

“I don’t know, Stiles. Maybe?” Scott responds, because he’s done being kind for the day. He wants to go back inside and be mindless again. Wants to forget about his crappy life for an hour or two.

“I’ll keep trying until I work it out then, okay?”

“I’m not sure what I’m agreeing to, but fine. You do what you think you have to. You always do.”

“Yeah, you’re not mad at me _at all_ ,” Stiles counters, looking weirdly pleased.

Perhaps he is. It’s possible he thinks Scott’s irritation is the kind of problem he can fix overnight, as opposed to the truth, which is far more complicated and in desperate need of time and effort.

“I’m mad at the situation,” Scott replies, sick of justifying himself, but needing to anyway. “Usually by now I’d be full of roast beef and staring longingly at an apple pie and trying to convince you not to spike the egg nog. I’d be planning next year’s lights and texting all our friends. And I’d be happy. Or something like it. Something close.”

Stiles steps forward, pauses with his hand in the air between them as if to ask permission. Scott grants it with a nod and Stiles holds onto his arm, strokes his thumb against the inside skin of his wrist.

“I’ll do my best to be the person who makes you happy,” Stiles vows, quietly. He dips his head. “Or something close.”

Scott wants to believe him. Knows how determined Stiles can be. Has seen Stiles grow, improve, change. It’s not unheard of. But he’s wary. He doesn’t have the energy to hope for this, to anticipate, to dream of a Christmas miracle. He curls his hand around and takes hold of Stiles’ hand regardless, listening to the jump, skip of their heart beats as they crash in and out of time.

The touch is almost everything he’s been missing. Almost everything he thinks he could ever want. It’s such a lie, runs against every revelation he’s been having the past couple of months, but it’s how he feels.

Stiles tugs him into a one-armed hug, pats his back, before stepping away. 

“Dad’ll wonder where I am,” he says with a shrug. He’s awkward again. Unsure. He keeps swinging forward, like he wants to be near Scott, like he wants to press close. That might be Scott’s wishful thinking.

“Mom’s probably sick of hiding in the hallway, straining to hear what we’re saying,” Scott replies at a slightly elevated volume. He hears a muffled thump that confirms his suspicions. 

“Thank you. And sorry, for not listening the first time. For not being more considerate. You deserve better. I’ve always known it. I didn’t think that I could do anything to be better. Honestly, it didn’t even cross my mind. But I can try. I _will_ try.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Stiles,” Scott says, gently. He’s not trying to put a dampener on Stiles’ enthusiasm for his plan, but he needs to be the pragmatic foil if Stiles is going to tilt headlong into naive optimism.

Stiles doesn’t look dejected. If anything, Scott’s cautionary warning gives him new vigor. “Don’t throw away promises you didn’t make, Scotty,” he retorts with a wink and an annoyingly jaunty wave. 

Scott watches him walk off down the road and goes back inside to his mom’s confused and agitated gesturing. 

Scott doesn’t know what the future brings. He suspects it’s more death and destruction. He’s terrified it involves reverting back into the fourteen year old kid in love with a best friend who doesn’t look at him twice. When he opens up the present Stiles gave him and sees a hand-crafted, customized protection talisman – one Dr. Deaton explained to them months ago – one that Scott knows would have taken weeks to prepare, that Stiles couldn’t have bought off Etsy or eBay – he’s worried that’s already occurred.

Christmas has been awful, the worst of the worst, but Scott’s starting to think the new year might not be so bad.

And he knows he’s doing the right thing, distancing himself from Stiles. But Scott’s so tired of doing the right thing. He’s gotten to the point where he can’t help but believe he’d be kinder by admitting how much he wants and needs Stiles. 

It’s _too_ much. 

That’s never really stopped him before.


	2. Chapter 2

At the beginning of January, Stiles shows up at Scott’s doorstep again. The Jeep is idling on the side of the road. Stiles looks good; still damp from his morning shower, with little to no product in his hair. He’s wearing a hoodie Scott hasn’t seen before and new-looking jeans, as well as the watch Scott bought him for Christmas. Scott resists the urge to comment on it, on his appearance. He thinks he’d say things he doesn’t want to reveal; if not in words, then the manner in which he’d speak. 

He’s been thinking a lot about Stiles, lately. Thinking about whether they could still fit in each other’s lives. He wants that, desperately. It was a frightening realization to make. He asked Stiles to leave him alone, and Stiles _did_. The whole ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ thing must be true in his case, because it made Scott feel awful, under his skin, in his bones, being apart from Stiles. 

Maybe that’s not healthy. Maybe Scott doesn’t care.

“How do you feel about a road trip?” Stiles asks with no preamble. 

They’ve seen each other at the grocery store and texted some since they last spoke. Nothing revolutionary. But Scott’s wearing the protection talisman Stiles made him and he touches it reflexively more than he’d care to admit.

It’s an unseasonably warm day and Scott was going to spend it indoors clearing out the box room of the house. A self-given chore, not something his mom was expecting. The drive sounds much more appealing. A day with Stiles by his side, after weeks of them being separate, sounds like some kind of gift. He’s not going to analyze that too closely. 

“Do I need anything special?” Scott asks, glancing back into the house and thinking about where his keys and phone might be.

Stiles gives a mock frown. “I think I have everything covered.”

It takes two minutes for Scott to get ready.

In the car, Stiles keeps glancing over at him as he drives. “I have to be honest, I didn’t think this would work. I had a fifty minute speech planned. You don’t even know where we’re going.”

“You’re starting to worry me. Should I be concerned?”

Stiles looks like he’s a second away from saying ‘yes’, but he course-corrects and what was starting to look like a smug smile shifts into something considerably more awkward and endearing. “No, I mean thank you for coming.”

Scott dips his head. It wasn’t a favor, but he can see how it must seem like one. They haven’t exactly been on good terms for a couple of months now. He told Stiles he wanted space. Yet, here they are. 

“This would be the part where you explain where we’re headed,” he prompts. 

“But that would spoil the surprise.”

Scott tips his head back against his seat. Of course. He should’ve known better. For all that he’s said he’s going to turn over a new leaf, Stiles is still _Stiles_. He’s infuriating in a way Scott’s always secretly liked. When they were younger, he was the one who pushed Scott into being more adventurous, more outgoing, more irresponsible (which is not the same thing as less responsible; at least, that’s how Scott liked to think of it.) It makes sense that this is a constant. 

Scott flicks the radio on and Stiles tells him about what he’s been up to. Scott tells Stiles about what it’s been like at the veterinary office. As if by telepathic consensus, they don’t talk about anything supernatural or high school related. It’s not exactly small talk, but it’s the kind of conversation they haven’t had for at least a year; calm, relaxed, boring. Scott is weirdly overjoyed by it, the simplicity of it.

They’re halfway there when he realizes where they’re going. “You’re taking me to Yosemite? I love Yosemite.”

Stiles gives him a small, self-satisfied smile. “I know you do.”

“You don’t love Yosemite,” Scott points out, because it seems necessary. “You said you thought the sequoias were plotting your downfall.”

“That might still be true!” Stiles says, and honestly, Scott doesn’t know if he’s joking or not. “I read that the Falls are spectacular right now, and I’ve always appreciated a good boulder.”

“Totally. Liam and I were talking about how you’re into huge balls just the other day.”

Stiles slides his gaze over to Scott and looks completely unimpressed, but there’s a hint of amusement there. He set Scott up for the joke. He had to have known it was going to be pathetic. 

Once they’re there, Stiles pays the entrance fee and they park. Stiles has a jacket for Scott lying in the back of the Jeep, which is great because it’s about 10 degrees colder here than in Beacon Hills. Scott tugs it around his body and hums at the warmth and Stiles’ scent. It’s the kind of considerate Stiles hasn’t been for a while, and though Scott’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be snatching at any small kindnesses he can… he is snatching at any small kindnesses he can. It’s nice to be cared for.

Stiles also has a backpack full of food and a thermos he passes to Scott that smells of hot chocolate. He really did come prepared.

They hike for an hour, Scott taking in the scenery. Stiles is quiet, but not disturbingly so. It’s a companionable silence that descends upon them. The Falls captivate Scott for minutes at a time and eventually Stiles has to tug him away to keep them moving. His hand slides into Scott’s and doesn’t move for several minutes. He doesn’t protest when later Scott takes them back to where they were before. 

It’s strange, being here and knowing that this land, these trees, these rocks, have been here for thousands upon thousands of years. That the water is both new and old. It makes him feel small, but in a good way. In a way that serves to remind him that he can only do the best he can do. That nature, life, will continue on regardless. It’s like a burden being lifted from his shoulders, if only for a short time.

“Hungry?” Stiles asks, hefting the bag on his shoulder to remind Scott that there’s food. 

“Now that you mention it,” Scott admits. 

They find one of the picnic spots, thankfully free of other visitors. The ice on the ground might have something to do with that. Stiles brings out sandwiches, chips, and what looks like homemade cake. The sandwiches Stiles pushes toward him are Scott’s favorite; triple cheese and lettuce, which he’s been told on more than one occasion, by more than one person, is simply bizarre. Scott doesn’t mind. It means more for him. He’s suddenly ravenous and he scarfs the food down with reckless abandon. 

Stiles has gotten fidgety after five bites, his knee bouncing. He’s gearing up for something, Scott can tell. He always gets extra agitated when he has something important to say. Scott’s dreading it. The truth is, he wants to move on without them having to discuss it anymore – the way they’ve failed each other. He wants them to be _them_ again. 

He’s being lazy. He’s doing himself a disservice. It’s also unkind to Stiles. But this is how Scott feels. 

“When dad was in hospital, I was so angry,” Stiles says, glaring down at the benchtop between them. 

“I remember.”

“But I wasn’t really angry with you.”

Scott raises his eyebrows, can’t not. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Stiles presses his lips together, lets out a gust of breath. “I was angry with this cartoon version of you I’d built up inside my head. The infallible, indefatigable wolfboy. I’d forgotten the _were_ part of werewolf. And I – I was angry at myself, angry at how useless I was, angry I couldn’t achieve the impossible. Angry that I trusted Theo, against my better judgement. You were an easy target. And you’d heal, right? You’d be okay. You could _die_ and you’d still be okay.”

Stiles shakes his head, cracks his knuckles. Scott wants to reach out and squeeze his shoulder, wants to touch him any way he can. He thinks Stiles has finished speaking, but then Stiles looks him in the eye. 

“Except some wounds aren’t physical, and can’t be fixed with super-healing powers.” Stiles sucks in another shuddering breath. “You should be angry with me. You should be disappointed in me. You should hate me, Scott.”

“But I don’t. “

“Why not?”

There are so many things to say in response, but Scott picks the easiest. The one he feels brave enough to explain. “Because you were gonna lose the only family you’ve had for a long time. Of course you were angry. I understood. I understand.”

“It’s not true, though,” Stiles says. “I _lost_ family. I lost you. I lost you and I didn’t let myself care. I didn’t let myself feel anything except that initial, blinding rage. _I lost you_. It wasn’t an almost or a nearly. Your mom told me. You were dead.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, because what else can he say. It’s true. 

“I need you to believe me when I say I won’t do that to you again.” Stiles screws his face up. “Which I am just now realizing is a shitty thing to request, but it’s more about me being convicted than me expecting you to be something you can’t be, if that makes any sense?”

Scott feels a swell of affection, unwieldy and undeniable. “I believe you, Stiles.”

“Do you really, though, or are you just saying that because I’m your ride home?”

Scott mock-sighs. “And your fiendish plan comes to light.” He rubs his sneaker up Stiles’ jittering leg. It stills, for a second, before starting up again, gentler, slower than before. “I accepted your apology weeks ago.”

“I didn’t actually understand what I’d done wrong until Christmas day. Not completely.”

“You say that, but you _did_ apologize. There were tears. I tried to say sorry too. You wouldn’t let me.”

“And then you said you needed space. Yep. Hard to forget.”

“So –” Scott says. Stiles interjects before he can finish his thought. 

“It’s more than that, though, isn’t it, Scotty? It’s deeper.”

In that moment, Scott doesn’t know the correct, appropriate words. Stiles isn’t wrong. He’s infuriatingly right. For all that Scott wants to erase everything bad that’s gone between them, for all that he forgave Stiles before Stiles even admitted he’d made a mistake, it isn’t that easy. 

And Scott may love Stiles – does love Stiles – but sometimes, love alone isn’t enough.

“We didn’t trust each other,” Stiles says. “We’ve known each other almost our entire lives and I didn’t trust you not to hate me for self-defense. You didn’t trust me not to purposely kill.”

“I don’t think that any of this was about mistrust,” Scott demurs. “I think we were both trusting in versions of each other that don’t really exist. I think we need to learn who we are, again.”

Stiles studies him, eyes flicking from his eyes to his mouth and back up once more. 

“Reset, from the beginning?”

“No. We can’t do that. We could pretend, but it wouldn’t be real.”

“Then what?”

“I seriously have no idea.”

Stiles knocks his head into the bench. When he picks it up he’s smiling. He curls his hand under his chin and looks at Scott with all the fondness in the world. 

“I was doing it again, wasn’t I? Expecting you to have all the answers,” Stiles says, still smiling at him.

“You should definitely know by now that I have none of the answers,” Scott replies. 

“I don’t want to lose you again,” Stiles says, in a voice that’s hushed, sombre. 

“Then we need to try to be honest with each other.”

It’s a terrifying thought, being honest with Stiles, having Stiles be honest with him. There’s a difference between blunt and truthful that he’s not sure either of them can handle. It feels like it’ll be an imposition, something they’ll have to overcome. Scott gazes at Stiles and he thinks they can manage it, if they want it badly enough. 

“My ass is aching,” Stiles blurts, standing abruptly.

“That’s a whole different level of honesty,” Scott says. “An unnecessary one, if we’re telling the truth.”

Stiles packs up the table with hurried, imprecise movements. When he’s finished, he takes Scott’s arm and leads him from the picnic area. He doesn’t let go. Scott doesn’t shake him off. He likes being pressed next to Stiles, hearing the rush of his blood through his veins, feeling his warmth. 

“Come on, I want us to see El Capitán before we leave.”

“It’s kind of unmissable.”

“So’s your face.” Stiles knocks into him. “That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told, by the way.”

It’s dusk when they finally leave. The colors are stunning, a kaleidoscope that Scott won’t get over any time soon. It’s getting dark, but it feels like comfort. Like safety. The shadows only highlight the light. 

“Thanks for this,” Scott says, looking out the window of the Jeep. “It was… beautiful.”

“It’s only the beginning.”

“What’s next?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll think of something.”

“It can’t all be special events, you know,” Scott says, softly. “I know you’re great at grand gestures, but like you said, it needs to be deeper.”

Stiles glances at him, nods. His eyes are back on the road when he finally speaks. “I know. But you smiled today, Scott, and I wanna do everything in my power to make that happen again.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains possibly triggering material surrounding implied suicide and suicide ideation.

Stiles is wearing only his boxers when Scott walks into his bedroom. Scott should probably avert his eyes. Scott does not avert his eyes. 

He’s seen Stiles naked or practically naked plenty of times before. Used to have dreams about it from the ages of twelve to fifteen, at first in a curious ‘he’s growing just like me’ way and then more ‘horny _all_ the time’. It’s not new. But it still interests him, a frankly indecent amount. 

Stiles isn’t a model of flawless physical perfection. He hunches a lot, so his spine juts out at disconcerting angles and his abs aren’t perfectly defined or rock hard. He has a roll of skin around his middle from when he rapidly lost ten or so pounds, age sixteen, and the hair on his upper thighs is still patchy. He’s broad shouldered, though, and his arms are surprisingly muscular. The vee of his hips is sharp; looking like a perfect hand-hold. Scott can’t and won’t tear his gaze away. 

Stiles looks up at him, assessing. He glances back down, gesturing. “I wonder about it too, sometimes. How exact a copy this body is. Maybe one day this cloned version will give up the ghost and we’ll have to try and transfer my head into a jar. Is it even the copy? Maybe there was a mass hallucination thing going on and a rogue switcheroo. Guess we’ll never know.”

Scott nods, aimlessly. None of those questions have ever even occurred to him. He’d tried not to think about that day ever since it had happened, the cold clench of terror in the pit of his stomach when he thought he’d lost Stiles for good. He’s had to learn to compartmentalize, to conveniently forget. Sometimes, he thinks those memories are bricked up behind a wall in his mind, sometimes he thinks they’ve been soaked up by the nemeton. 

Scott doesn’t want to share the true reasoning behind his staring. Even though they’re supposed to be more honest with each other from now on, that feels like a step too far.

“I get that. I used to wonder if being a werewolf wasn’t some kind of parasitic infestation, whether my real body was eaten up and churned into dust. It was weirdly comforting to realize my asthma could come back.”

Stiles steps closer. “Remember this scar?” he asks, pointing to the inside of his right elbow. Scott remembers the scar vividly – he saw its creation – Stiles accidentally running through a glass door when he was ten, a chunk of his flesh missing and blood everywhere. “I cried when I saw it was still there.”

There are only inches between them and Scott thinks about closing the gap, folding Stiles up into a hug. But he doesn’t do it. They don’t usually hug unless one of them is dying. It feels gratuitous to attempt that level of contact at this moment in time.

“Our lives are so fucked up,” Stiles mutters, moving away again to put on more clothes. 

Scott won’t disagree. He stares at Stiles slipping on a t-shirt and jeans and tries not to regret it, to wish he could strip off too and join Stiles in bed for the day.

But they have school. Responsibilities. Duty. And they don’t do that anyway, don’t wrap around each other under the covers. 

“Been studying for finals?” he asks, changing the subject. 

This is the first time they’ve gone to school together in months, the first time they’ve entertained the idea of interacting there. Scott had transferred out of all of Stiles’ classes on compassionate grounds, Alan coming in to throw around his weight when Melissa had gotten caught up at the hospital. It had been surprisingly easy. 

The flat look his question earns is all the answer he needs. Stiles checks his backpack, wrinkles his nose at whatever he finds there – judging by the smell it was a snack at one point in the distant past – and shakes his head.

“Maybe we could do that, later, at the library?” Scott ventures.

He doesn’t tell Stiles he doesn’t like going to the library alone. That he almost had a panic attack the last time he visited and was joined by Liam and Mason. 

Stiles gives him a soft, considering look. “If that’s what you want.”

What Scott actually wants is to magically skip forward in time having successfully completed the entirety of his schooling. He wants to be anticipating a long, hot, worry-free summer. Instead, he’s trying to memorize and master facts that currently have little bearing on his life. Being a teenager really does fucking suck. 

*

His arm is aching, his head is pounding, and he’s pretty sure he’s puked up every meal he ate during the week. It’s just another sunny day in Beacon Hills. 

Best of all, Stiles is glaring at him. That might actually hurt more than all the bruises. It reminds him a little too clearly of Stiles’ anger last year, of how he let it be known. Scott hates how he can’t stop himself from flinching back from the thunderous look on Stiles’ face.

“That fucking asshole,” Stiles storms. He lets out an angry huff of breath, drags a first aid bag onto the coffee table, starts unpacking items with jerky, furious movements. “Sending another two-bit villain here to attack us. Attack _you_. I’m gonna fly over there and shove his preppy little scarf down his giraffe-length thro---

“You can’t blame Isaac for this,” Scott interjects. “Blame the two-bit villain. At least Isaac gave us a warning he was coming.”

“Yeah, and instead of running and hiding, what’d you do? You chose to lure a dude who basically calls himself Moony McMoon to a secret meeting place. Great life choices.”

“Lleuad would have killed innocent people to get to me. You know this as well as I do.”

“Everyone knows you know this, which is why they bank on you being noble and self-sacrificing.”

Scott makes a small ‘eh’ sound. It hurts too much to do anything else. Stiles starts cleaning up the cuts on his arm with careful precision, his gaze focused and intense. His fingers are soft as they brush against Scott’s wrist and twist him this way and that, apply a sterilized bandage.

“Are you in pain?” Stiles asks, suddenly, frowning down again.

“Yeah. I am. You’re in pain whenever you get cut, aren’t you? Being a werewolf doesn’t stop the pain, it just speeds up the healing,” Scott says, not bothering to soften it. “Sometimes, it probably hurts more, because my body starts working so quickly, rerouting blood and fixing up nerve endings.” He’s a little pissed off Stiles is acting like he did the wrong thing. He’s more than a little frustrated he’s in a situation where he feels he has to defend himself again.

“Do you think the others could drain it for you?” Stiles says, looking back up into Scott’s eyes. His lips are thin, his cheeks sunken. Scott thinks about what he said about not knowing if this is the same body that was invaded by Void.

“I couldn’t ask that of them.”

“Why not? You know any of us would do it.” Stiles scowls again. “If we could.”

“Last time you got injured, you wouldn’t let me take your pain, would you?”

Stiles rolls his head, tips his gaze up to the ceiling. “I tripped and sprained my ankle because I wasn’t paying attention. It was my pain to have. You don’t deserve this.”

“I don’t? You were kinda behaving like I do.”

“Maybe I’m angry you appear to have a death wish,” Stiles rails, standing. He takes a step away.

Scott mirrors him, standing at the other end of the couch, bracing the hand of his good arm against the other. “I patently do not have a death wish.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I did.”

“You say that, but here you are, ready to be a martyr again.”

“I’m not. But something has to be done. Someone has to stop Lleuad De La Lune. I have the power, the knowledge, the means.”

“Yeah, and wanting this fucking bullshit to be over has nothing to do with it,” Stiles snaps, eyes oddly bright and manic. 

He’s standing exactly the same way he did that night at the Glen Capri, stepping closer, body arching forward. His expression is drawn, dragging downwards, like his face is a mask that keeps slipping.

“I had a choice, Stiles,” Scott says, the words finally out, and more painful because of it. “I… think I had a choice. I _chose_ to come back.”

Stiles visibly deflates. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his eyes dart to the side. He opens his mouth once, twice, then turns on his heel and marches out of Scott’s living room. Scott hears the front door slam ten seconds later, the Jeep’s motor running a short while after that.

Scott doesn’t know what to do. He’d had paragraphs planned to say, to explain. He’d spent countless hours carefully constructing his one-sided argument, over the days they weren’t speaking to one another. About how realizing he’s a small, mostly inconsequential drop in the cosmic ocean spurs him into doing whatever he can to make life easier for other people. If all he has are his actions, his choices, he’ll make damn sure they count for something. 

He’d predicted that telling Stiles would be confronting. He’d expected some kind of altercation. He hadn’t expected Stiles running out on him. He’s used to a Stiles who jumps into fraught situations, who says he’s a coward while proving the opposite. He’s unsettled. 

Scott packs up the first aid kit and settles back on the couch, turning on the TV to see if there’s anything that can distract him for a while. He wonders if he should be happy that at least this time Stiles didn’t punch him, then berates himself for the thought. He knows Stiles is suffering under anxiety and great stress, just as he is. Stiles has apologized and tried to do better, tried to be kinder, which isn’t his default state, so it’s an effort that can be challenging in their current situation. And of course there are going to be bumps along the way, mistakes and miscalculations. 

But he’s only human, so he wallows in bitterness for a short time, condemned to watching several episodes of _How It’s Made_ , before falling into sleep. 

*

He wakes up on his bed. He vaguely remembers stumbling up the stairs, his mom’s hand on his shoulder. He groans. He wasn’t lying about not having a death wish, but he enjoys the numbness of sleep when he’s afforded it. There’s something to be said for the lack of pressure in closing your eyes and drifting off. He hasn’t had nightmares for two whole weeks, which is impressive considering the shitshow that was the day.

There’s a knocking sound at his window. Scott shifts into wolf-form, ready and alert, but when he pulls up his blind, it’s just Stiles.

He unlocks the window and Stiles climbs inside, collapses onto Scott’s bed. His hair’s flat, he’s wearing ratty sweats and a loose gray t-shirt, and the circles under his eyes are darker than usual.

“How did it feel?” Stiles asks. Scott doesn’t need him to clarify. He sits next to him on the edge of the bed, picks at the corner of his sheet.

“Peaceful,” he replies. “I felt content. I don’t think I’d ever felt content before. There’d always been something that snatched away any happiness I felt, any stability. My dad, my asthma, the bite, all the assholes who’ve been trying to kill me ever since the bite. But this was calm. Unhurried. Unburdened. It was good.”

Stiles’ mouth opens and closes a couple of times and he gives a shuddery exhale. When he speaks, the words are fractured. “Why did you come back?”

“Because you needed me. You all needed me. Even when you wouldn’t acknowledge or accept it,” Scott says simply. He shrugs. “And it seemed like it had to be a trap. Too good to be true.”

Stiles rubs at his mouth. His next exclamation sounds like a whimper. “Scott.”

Scott knocks into his side. “Don’t do that. Don’t sound like you’re breaking. It isn’t fair.”

Stiles sucks in several rapid breaths, twists his mouth up. He shuffles to the side and then stands, pacing, his hands swirling through the air like blades. Scott’s disappointed. He’s going to go again, isn’t he. 

“Sorry. Sorry,” Stiles says, not running out the door. “This isn’t the correct response to what you’re telling me.”

“I don’t think there is a correct response.”

“But if there were, this wouldn’t be it. I should be comforting you, not reacting like you have to comfort me.” Stiles stops, suddenly, looks like he’s bracing for impact. “How did you do it? How did you choose to walk back into hell on earth?”

Scott stands too, awkward sitting with Stiles spiraling nearby. “It isn’t always hell,” he reminds him. 

“Except for every second that it is.”

“We can make it so it isn’t.”

Stiles’ expression softens. He reaches out and tugs Scott into a hold that’s so tight Scott initially struggles to breathe. Stiles strokes a hand up Scott’s back, exhales wetly against his neck.

“It’s possible I’m never letting you go,” Stiles murmurs.

“Okay.”

There’s a hesitant stroke of Stiles’ thumb against his spine and then, “Unless you want me to.”

Scott shakes his head, tightens his own hold. “I don’t.”

They pull apart eventually. Stiles rubs at his own face, then brushes his fingers against Scott’s jaw. For a second, Scott thinks they’re going to kiss, but Stiles’ hand leaves him as quickly as it touched, and he wipes himself off on his sweats.

“I shouldn’t’ve run out on you earlier,” Stiles admits. 

Scott indicates for him to sit again, settles beside him. They’re touching all along their thighs, their elbows knocking. Scott appreciates the warmth. He’s tired. He wants to curl up under the covers, forget about the world for another few hours. But this is one of those important conversations they need to have. The kind they avoided before; the very trait that helped Theo drive a wedge between them. 

“It was terrible,” Scott confirms. 

“I don’t know how to handle my emotions.”

“You ever think maybe you should learn?”

Stiles laughs, wriggles even closer. “Dying’s really brought out your inner sonofabitch.”

“What can I say? You get a taste of complete tranquillity, the truth no longer seems like a precious commodity that must be kept secret.”

Stiles seems to contemplate this, glances at Scott like he’s reluctant to look away. “I want to learn. I wish I could be as strong as you.”

“I’m not that strong, Stiles.”

“You are and you aren’t,” Stiles says, cryptically. “Do you mind if I crash here tonight? I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Scott’s heart skips a beat and then starts up again in double time. “Sleep here. There’s plenty of room. We can grab some extra pillows.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Stiles says, already kicking off his shoes and tipping onto his side. He lies down on his back, shuffles until he’s on the other side of the bed with the most ridiculous whole body roll Scott’s ever seen. He’s done this before, lain on Scott’s bed with very little regard for the notion it’s intimate, sacred. Usually, he hasn’t nudged at Scott and gestured for him to join. 

Scott gets into bed, drags his comforter up and over them. Stiles is facing him, eyes glittering in the dark. Scott thinks about all of the things they could be doing and adjusts his legs, wills his heart rate to slow. He thanks small mercies that Stiles doesn’t have the same senses as he does, because he’s sure he’d overreact to the chemosignals of terror and arousal Scott’s involuntarily injecting into the air. 

“You’re not fighting Lleuad alone,” Stiles states.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“But I wanted to be absolutely clear.”

“You always are.”

Stiles pokes his side. His hand doesn’t leave Scott’s body afterwards, resting beneath his ribcage. “Why do I get the feeling that’s some kind of slight?”

“We said we’d be honest with each other, Stiles. I’m trying to uphold my end of the bargain.”

“Throw today’s failures in my face again, why don’t you.”

Scott pokes him back, similarly not disengaging contact. “Shut up and let me sleep.”

“You shut up and let _me_ sleep.”

“You’re the one who woke me up.”

“You woke me up too, Scott,” Stiles mutters. Scott doesn’t think he’s speaking literally. 

They start to fall asleep like that, hands stretched out between them. Scott’s lying on his injured arm, but he doesn’t mind. It’s halfway healed already and being near Stiles probably means it will be back to normal by the morning. He’s not going to think about that too closely.


	4. Chapter 4

When Scott wakes up, the first thing he registers is a weight across his legs. It takes him a moment to realize it must be Stiles. His arm is numb, trapped under Stiles’ torso, and he feels sweaty, overheated. He doesn’t want to move. 

But then Stiles is making the kinds of snuffling, grumbling noises that signal he’s awake too and he has no choice but to subtly, carefully move out from under him. 

Stiles stretches, arching, then flails upright. Scott watches with lidded eyes, until he notices something that makes his eyes open wider against his volition. Stiles is hard, cock tenting his sweats, a firm bulge that looks like more than a handful. 

He knows it isn’t strange. It doesn’t mean anything in the way of Stiles being attracted to him. The body does what it wants when it wants. Scott wakes up hard frequently. But that doesn’t stop him from looking. He even thinks maybe he opens his mouth, tongues at his lips. 

“Don’t mind my dick,” Stiles says, offhand. He’s noticed Scott’s gaze. “It always likes to wave good morning.”

Scott can feel heat rushing up under his skin and wonders if it shows in the dim light. One of the few consolations Scott’s had growing up is that his blushes aren’t always apparent from a single look in his direction.

“It’s friendlier than _you_ are.”

“Suck it, wolfboy.”

Scott bites down to prevent a strangled whimper. 

This time, Stiles doesn’t notice his consternation. “We’re gonna work on a plan against Lleuad today, right?”

“Plans plural, yeah. I’ll send a group text.”

“Can I borrow some jeans and a shirt? Don’t feel like going home only to come back.”

An instinctive part of Scott leaps up into his throat and starts to bounce disconcertingly, making his voice go higher-pitched than usual. “Not a problem.”

Scott decides to shower. He’s sweat-slick and still sleepy, and if he can’t cleanse his mind, he’ll clean his body.

He takes his time under the hot spray, trying to center himself. He deliberately diverts his attention to the sounds of traffic and chirping birds outside so he isn’t listening in on Stiles. It takes concentration, to willfully ignore the person he wants to assure himself of, time and again. But it always feels like impropriety, _stalking_. An unwanted attention. Obsession. 

He has an internal war as to whether it would be better to be more vigilant where Stiles is concerned, but that hasn’t helped him in the past; giving him a skewed perception of Stiles’ self-condemnation and defensiveness. Each time the inner argument comes up he finds himself erring on the side of caution and care not to be invasive, not to cross his own invisible line.

He’s gotten used to dulling Stiles’ pulse to a faint beating sound in a distant chamber in his mind, to only analyzing Stiles’ chemosignals when he feels there’s a lot at stake. Some things can’t be ignored. They come through loud and clear and obnoxious. Scott can think of many instances recently when his consciousness has been instinctual, unavoidable. But he tries his best, keeps working on it, and it becomes easier. 

Stiles looks up at him with a semi-concerned frown when he walks back into his room, pulling his shirt down and adjusting the sleeves. He’s wearing one of Scott’s newest tees and it suits him. Scott’s captivated all over again, tongue-tied and working furiously not to show it. He misses the days he’d resigned himself to friendship only and fallen in love with others. He may never have forgotten Stiles, nor the way he felt about him, but he’d found it all more manageable.

“Kira replied already. She’ll be here in half an hour. She said last time you promised waffles and so that’s what she’s expecting for being woken up at 7 am on the weekend,” Stiles says after a beat of silence. “Made from scratch?”

“Yep, my mom’s special recipe.”

Stiles appears to accept this, then does a double-take. “Your mom can’t actually cook.”

“That’s why it’s special. She copy and pasted it from the internet, followed it exactly, and our house hasn’t burned down since.”

Kira will be a grounding influence. She always makes him feel his most confident and capable. It’s somehow less painful to be heartsore over Kira and the relationship they haven’t yet realized than what will never be with Stiles. Scott doesn’t think Kira’s prepared to take another step with him until she has all sides of herself under her control -- the kitsune, the person, the potential – they’re on indefinite hold – but he got to bask in her light for a short while, and who knows what will happen with them next? There’s the anticipation of what might still be. 

Stiles watches him carefully as he slips on and ties his shoes, expression unreadable beyond intense. Scott realizes he’s been smiling idly to himself, thinking about spending time with two of the people he loves more than anything in the world.

“So,” Stiles says with a huff. “Waffles?”

*

Six days later, and for all their planning, for all the meticulous detail Scott put into it, they’re still here, battered, bruised and bloody. Stiles most of all, because he put himself in the path of a bullet. It grazed his upper arm, is only a flesh wound, has already been stitched and covered up, but Scott’s so angry he could howl. 

“You’re the biggest hypocrite I’ve ever known, and I’d like to remind you about my dad,” he says, too weary to shout. His anger is the slow, cold kind, the one that’ll hopefully freeze Stiles statue-still. 

“The gun was aimed in your direction.”

“The one time you forget that _I’m_ the werewolf,” Scott scoffs. It feels wrong in his mouth, against his teeth. 

Stiles practically snarls at him. “I was trying to protect you.”

“Don’t think that I’d _ever_ want you sacrificing your life to save mine. That wouldn’t be penance. It’d be stupidity.”

Stiles opens his mouth, on the verge of speaking, but closes it with a snap.

“Say what you wanna say,” Scott commands. There’s a growl in the undertone and he’s pretty sure his eyes surge red for a millisecond. 

“I was gonna say you know all about stupidity, don’t you?” Stiles says, eyes flashing. He gives a bitter sigh. “But it wouldn’t be true. When you self-sacrifice it’s righteous. When I do it, it’s pathetic.”

“That’s not – come _on_ , Stiles. I’ve never wanted to be a martyr. I wasn’t exactly running into the fray when Theo killed me. He kinda murdered me unaware. Last time, with Lleuad? I didn’t lure him to a secret meeting place. I was failing at reconnaissance.”

“You don’t put yourself in harm’s way,” Stiles intones, the sarcasm so thick not even Scott’s chilly attitude can slice through it.

“Of course I do. We all do. It’s the price we seem to be forced to pay over and over. But there are unavoidable instances and fully avoidable ones, and guess which one this was?”

“I was putting you first,” Stiles says so quietly if Scott didn’t have super hearing, he wouldn’t catch it. 

“You were not. If you were, you’d realize I couldn’t handle another person giving their life so that I might live mine. Not again, Stiles. Never again.” 

All fight between them seems to have evaporated into the ether. Stiles slouches, tipping his head against the backrest of the couch. Scott follows him, rubs at his face. 

“I’m tired,” Scott says after a minute or so of shared breathing and not much else. There are no birds outside to listen to, and he doesn’t care about the traffic. All Scott’s been hearing for the past seventy-seven seconds are Stiles’ labored breaths, irregular heartbeats, and occasional blood-nose afflicted snuffles. “Are you tired?”

“I’ll get out of your hair.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. Stay.”

“The night?”

“Unless you can’t stand to be around me.”

Stiles shakes his head, wobbles to his feet. “I was thinking the reverse.”

He holds out his hand, and it’s such a gentle, warm gesture that Scott takes it with a semblance of a smile. Stiles raises his eyebrows, quirks his lips back and it’s like they’ve been arguing over who’s gotten to use the remote the last five hours rather than life or death. 

They stumble up the stairs together and Scott thinks this might be his favorite recurring pattern. He wishes it didn’t always come at the tail-end of horror and pain. 

He strips down to his boxers and crawls into bed. In unspoken agreement that nothing more is needed, Stiles does the same. It isn’t completely dark outside, but Scott’s blind blocks out a lot of the light. It’s dim enough to sleep and Scott thinks even if his entire room was luminescent he’d sleep anyway, exhaustion hanging off him like an old friend.

“I wonder why you still give me the time of day,” Stiles says, carefully, slowly. He’s feeling around for an answer, obviously painfully aware it might bite.

“Sometimes I worry about it. Sometimes I think I shouldn’t trust you, that people would tell me to walk away. Any day now I’d go home and mom would be staging an intervention. But it’s not like that, Stiles. _We’re_ not. To expect everything to go how it should in an ideal world is childish. We don’t live in that situation. We haven’t for a long time.”

“That sounds a lot like you’ve made allowances for my dickish behavior because we live in a dickish world.”

Scott blinks up at the ceiling. “Yeah.”

Stiles’ tone next is bordering on sardonic. It cracks, though, goes thick at the end, like Stiles is trying to swallow the words even as he says them. “Shouldn’t you expect better for yourself, Scott?”

“I’ve been hoping that _better_ will be you,” Scott says, softly. Stiles’ heart is beating with a small skip, the same rattling syncopation he vibrates when he’s on the verge of panicking. And Scott doesn’t want to cause him anxiety, but he needs to be clear in this, needs to keep his boundaries defined. “Do you accept that what you said, what you did that time in the hospital, was wrong?”

“You know I do. Yes. I don’t ever want to make you feel that way again.”

“So live up to your promise. Try. That’ll be good enough for me.”

Stiles’ breathing is a kind of calm that must be artificial. He takes slow, deep breaths, in and out. Scott finds his own chest settling to the same rhythm. They’re silent for a few moments as the dwindling light envelops them. 

“I do feel guilty about it, you know,” Stiles says, nothing artificial this time. Nothing faked. “I don’t always tell you. But I think about it.”

“It’s okay to feel guilty. I feel guilty too, about all kinds of things. But if that’s all you do, it isn’t very helpful, for anyone. Make it worth something.” 

“Worth what? What should I do?” Stiles sounds lost, earnest, like he needs Scott’s guidance or he’ll fall into the depths of hell. 

And Scott’s reminded of that time in the rain, when Stiles begged Scott to tell him how to fix them. Scott had believed Theo’s lies, had ignored Stiles’ confusion at his response, had seen the rage in Stiles and had been terrified that he was capable of cold-hearted murder, acting offensively rather than defensively. Scott had been angry, and scared, and had let the distance between them cloud his judgement. 

He knows a lot about guilt.

“Keep doing what you’ve been doing,” Scott says, stretching out a hand and wrapping it around Stiles’ wrist, needing that tether, that closeness. “Not today, because I thought I was gonna have an actual heart attack. But all the other times. It’s been good, Stiles.”

Stiles moves his arm and Scott thinks he’s going to pull away, but instead he turns it over and slides until they’re holding hands, palm to palm. “All right,” he says, heart beginning to slow again, breath starting to come more freely. “I can do that.”

Maybe it’s because they’re not facing each other. Perhaps it’s because Stiles’ pulse is thumping against his own. Because their fingers are entwined. But Scott says the truth that’s the most revealing, the one that’s a declaration he doesn’t have the energy to deny any more.

“Stiles, honestly, I give you the time of day because just being with you makes my day better.”

Stiles swings their hands up and down again, strokes against Scott’s knuckles. “Same back at you, buddy.”

_Buddy._

Scott’s pathetically pleased Stiles can’t hear the sound of his heart shriveling and breaking into tiny shards.


	5. Chapter 5

When they finally defeat Lleuad, Scott rides home by himself, holes himself up in his room, and cries for what feels like hours. No one got hurt. There wasn’t even a minor graze between them, unlike last time. They banish Lleuad from Beacon Hills with some blood magic and teamwork. But it’s like everything he’s been holding inside so tightly wound fractures and spills, and that’s it, he’s curled up in the fetal position, sobbing. 

He cries himself to sleep. When he wakes up he has a crick in his neck and he can hear another heartbeat in the room. He rolls over to see Stiles dozing in his computer chair. Scott’s surprised he didn’t wake up when Stiles entered his room. He’s confused about Stiles being there at all. Stiles snaps awake as soon as Scott stands, smearing a hand over his face. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, suspiciously casual, glancing at what feel like semi-tacky tear-tracks down Scott’s face. “You were amazing today.”

Scott shrugs it off. He thinks about Malia, Hayden and Liam’s hand-to-hand combat skills and Kira’s swordsmanship, how Alan, Mason and Stiles flawlessly recited Ancient Aramaic. “It was a joint effort.”

“Sure. But you were amazing,” Stiles says again. The funny thing is, it sounds like he means it. Scott isn’t capable of parsing that in this moment, would rather not look at Stiles when he’s in his rare but overwhelming Scott Admiration Mode. 

“You hungry?”

“I’m a teenaged boy. Always.”

Scott ducks into the bathroom first, washes his face and hands. When he comes out, Stiles is hovering outside the door, affecting a pose that is as far from relaxed as can be. 

“Are you all right?” Stiles asks, eyes narrowing speculatively. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Scott says, starting the descent downstairs.

“It’s okay if you aren’t,” Stiles replies, softly, from the top of the stairs. “You understand that, don’t you?”

“ _I_ do, yes.”

Stiles clatters down the stairs after him, with some obvious jumps and skips in the middle. He almost goes careering into Scott’s back. He’s talking with his hands again, bold, jagged movements that remind Scott of when they were younger, full of vim and vigor. 

“But, see, you don’t behave like it. These past few months you’ve talked this big talk about putting yourself first and taking care of your needs, and as far as I can tell, you haven’t really done it. Not once.”

Stiles isn’t wrong. Scott thinks that may be one of Stiles’ most infuriating traits. When he wants to be, he can be pinpoint accurate.

“Moony McMoon kinda made that next to impossible,” Scott reasons.

“Not if you weren’t Scott McCall. If you weren’t you, you’d have washed your hands clean of it, thrown them up and said ‘fuck it all’.”

“But I am me.”

“You really are.” Stiles steps close, braces his hands against Scott’s shoulders. “Listen. If you need to be crying right now, go and cry. I’ll make you something to eat.”

“That seems like a risky prospect. You near cooking appliances? It’s probably better if I stay down here.”

Scott stays and together they make pasta, because it’s what they find in the cupboard. After they’ve been simmering the cooked pasta in tomato sauce, Stiles dumps in four different kinds of cheeses, muttering something about them both being growing boys. 

They eat quickly, mouths too crammed full of food to allow conversation. Scott doesn’t know what he’d say. He wants to ask Stiles what made him wait in his room. What made him choose the chair instead of joining him on the bed. The food’s sinfully good, rich comfort food that Scott can’t help moaning over, just a little. Stiles stares at him with a disconcerting intensity that can’t be deciphered even when paired with analysis of his chemosignals; mostly because they’re jumping all over the place, his body chemistry out of whack because of the high adrenaline day. 

Scott’s mom texts to tell Scott she’s pulling a double shift toward the end of the meal and he texts back a “be safe”, trying not to feel disappointed, then surrendering himself to it anyway. He wanted to talk with her, wanted the sense of security having her nearby.

“Mom won’t be here until five in the morning,” he explains at Stiles’ curious grunt. He abandons the last three bites of his dinner and packs up the leftovers still bubbling in the pan. 

Stiles wraps his hand around Scott’s wrist gently, and Scott realizes he’s been standing by the open fridge, idly rubbing the talisman Stiles gave him for Christmas. 

“Wanna go surprise Melissa with a home cooked meal? I’ll drive.”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“Aren’t we all?”

“You have your own home to be getting back to.”

Stiles frowns, has that doe-eyed sorrow-filled look he sometimes gets that tears at Scott’s heart. “You want me to leave you alone?”

In this moment, Scott can’t lie. Not even if he thinks it’s for the best. He shakes his head, admits the truth. “No. I don’t want that.”

“Scotty,” Stiles sighs, dragging a hand over Scott’s head and ruffling his hair. “Let me. Please.”

They drive to the hospital, Scott feeling lighter just at the prospect of seeing his mom. He smiles gratefully at Stiles when they pull up in the parking lot and thinks his adoration is probably showing. He doesn't care. Stiles smiles back, small and private, and it's a simple kindness but it cuts deep into Scott's core. He didn't have to explain, wasn't going to push, yet Stiles knew he needed this. 

His mom gives him a warm crushing hug that he relaxes into. Scott's immediately comforted in a way he only suspected he wanted. She even pats Stiles' shoulder and she's been holding a grudge against him for the past 7 months. Melissa's allowed to take a half hour break and they all sit in the cafeteria as she eats, listening to Scott recounting in detail how their latest plan succeeded. She'd gotten a short blow by blow on the phone, but she says that's never enough to ease her worry. Stiles adds his own perspective to the narrative here and there, explaining things Scott can't. 

By the time Stiles drives Scott home, they're both yawning profusely. Scott thinks about offering up his bed again, but Stiles doesn't leave his Jeep. He waits until Scott's in his house and drives away with a goodbye wave. 

Over the next few weeks, life settles into a new kind of normal. Scott studies day and night rather than battling the forces of evil. Alan gives him a few weeks of paid leave. Scott wonders how he can afford it, but doesn't ask out loud. The pack shares lunch each school day and group chat in the evenings. Stiles arrives at Scott's house for study buddy sessions with snacks and notes he bought from other students for the classes they missed. 

They haven't shared Scott's bed since before banishing Lleuad. Scott misses it with a visceral ache. 

He's gotten better at initiating the kind of contact he wants with Stiles, though. He'll reel him in for a short hug at the end of the day, will lean into him when they sit together on the couch. And Stiles will slide a hand up his forearm to get his attention, will tuck his feet under his thighs. 

It's a sunny Sunday morning when Stiles shows up on his doorstep with sunglasses perched on his nose. He's wearing shorts. Scott glances down, then up, then down again, mostly for comic effect. 

"Beach day," Stiles says, simply. 

"The beach is, like, two and a half hours away," Scott points out. 

"Live a little, McCall."

Unable to contradict such a valid and cogent argument, Scott packs a bag in record time and soon they're driving to the coast. Scott had thought they were going to pick the others up along the way, but they don't.

As it’s not yet summer, it’s cooler at the beach than Scott thinks either of them expected, but that doesn’t stop them from horsing around in the ocean spray. It doesn’t stop Stiles from stripping off his shirt and asking Scott to slather him in sunscreen, or from putting a handful of sand down Scott’s pants when his back is turned.

“You _asshole_ ,” Scott shrieks, chasing Stiles down the beach. 

When he catches him he throws him into the water and laughs until his sides hurt when Stiles indignantly splutters then tries and fails to drag him into the depths with him. 

Salt and seaweed is in the air and it makes Scott feel small and insignificant and in awe of nature again.

He purposely dives into the waves and joins Stiles swimming. The water is fucking freezing and he stands on something disgustingly slippery, but it’s freedom and carelessness and Scott wouldn’t trade it for anything. The sound of the sea calms him, the taste of the air energizes him, and the light that surrounds him makes it so much easier to gaze at Stiles.

An hour later, they’re drying themselves on the sand. It’s either gotten hotter or Scott’s body has acclimatised to the weather, because he feels pleasantly warm as well as muscle-sore. He passes Stiles a bottle of water and buries his toes with little wriggles, grinning at the sensation of wet sand against his soft skin. 

“I’m having an awesome time,” he says. He sounds like a kid, but, well, maybe in that moment he’s allowed to.

“Me too,” Stiles says, closer than Scott thought he’d be.

He thinks he’s in for another sand-dump or tickle attack when Stiles leans over him, but that’s not what happens. 

Instead, Stiles braces a hand against the back of his neck, tilts his head up with a finger under his chin, and kisses him. His lips move against Scott’s, soft but insistent and Scott’s opening his mouth and licking against Stiles’ lower lip before his brain goes back online.

It’s simultaneously the best and worst moment of Scott’s life. It’s everything he’s ever wanted for years, and he’s only getting it because Stiles thinks he owes him a debt. The horrible thing is, despite Scott’s constant struggle to be a good person, he desperately wants to capitalize on it. 

But he can’t make Stiles love him. Not the way he’s always dreamed about.

He pushes Stiles back, scoots away, watches as the blush drains from Stiles’ face and he becomes deathly pale.

“Stiles, stop. Don’t. I don’t want you to think you have to give me _everything_ I want to buy my friendship. This has been enough, okay? You making an effort at all has been enough.”

Stiles’ expression cycles through approximately five emotions before it settles on a kind of joyous wonder. 

“Scotty, you know me,” he says, tender and sweet. He raises an eyebrow. “I’m not exactly kissing you just because I thought you wanted me to. I’m doing it because _I_ wanted to. Because I’ve wanted to for as long as I can remember.” 

He moves close again, slowly, so slowly, like he’s afraid Scott will run away. He caresses Scott’s cheek, presses a thumb against his lower lip. 

“You…?” Scott starts. Doesn’t know how to finish. The idea that this isn’t Stiles’ twisted sense of duty, that it’s reciprocation, turns Scott inside out.

“You really want me to kiss you?” Stiles asks, tone rich and gaze penetrating. 

Stiles’ voice alone sets Scott’s pulse racing and something inside performing complicated gymnastics. He feels utterly unprepared and out of control, and honestly, more than a little terrified. 

“I want us to kiss,” Scott says, crowding forward and claiming Stiles’ lips. 

This kiss is every bit as gentle as the first, but it’s fire and crackle too. It’s Stiles’ hands sliding down his back, and his hands hoisting Stiles into his lap. It’s careful, deliberate touches turning uncoordinated and urgent. It’s love, pure and simple.

Scott becomes pure emotion, pure want and need. Everything else fades into oblivion.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s going to be the first full summer they spend together. Since they were young, one extended family group or another has claimed them for a week or two. Or they’ve had part time jobs. Or they’ve had summer school. Well, Stiles had summer school. But this year, finally, Scott and Stiles have no other responsibilities. 

High School is finished. Over. Done and dusted. 

It almost doesn’t seem real. 

Alan is still plying Scott with paid leave – Scott’s protested on several occasions, tried to pay him back, but the money turns up in his bank account every two weeks. He pulls Scott into a hug at one point and tells him he’s family, all he’s doing is providing for him. Rafael also sends Scott information for an account entitled ‘college fund’ and Scott literally falls over in shock at the amount within;- collected by both his dad and mom since his birth. His mom gives him some cash up front, admits she’s been hiding it away under her mattress. She tells him the money she gives him is not for saving, but for frivolous spending. Scott _loves_ his parents and vows he’ll do whatever he can to live up to their gifts.

Scott has to prepare for college, sure, but both Scott and Stiles are going to UC Davis along with Kira and that isn’t far away. Malia’s choosing to take a year off and Lydia will be off to MIT. Liam, Hayden, Mason and Corey are loudly and excessively jealous of them all.

Scott’s nervous, but for one of the first times in his life, it’s a joyful kind of anticipation. He’s proved to himself that he can do almost anything he wants with perseverance. If he can get the grades he’s gotten while contending with literal death, supernatural shenanigans and a couple of major break-ups, he can handle the added responsibilities of college. Plus, he has the support of his pack. The support of his best friend. He’s not alone.

“You’re smiling into thin air,” Stiles says, interrupting Scott’s musing about what to do for the day. 

They’re sitting on Scott’s bed, a sheet haphazardly pooled over their laps. Scott’s been entertaining simply staying at home and playing Mario Kart in his boxers. An alternative is going for a run at the preserve, jumping into the lake. Or maybe just staying in bed with Stiles. They haven’t yet mastered an uninterrupted hour of making out.

“Is there some sort of law against that?” Scott asks, eyebrow raised.

Stiles shakes his head vigorously. “No. I like it. I mean, obviously, I prefer it when you smile directly at me, but I harbor no illusions you weren’t thinking about that thing I did with my tongue last night.”

“You’re right. You shutting up for once was absolutely on my mind.”

“Cruel.”

“I was thinking about what we’re gonna do, rather than what we were doing,” Scott explains, uncrossing his legs. 

He’s aching pleasantly, which is a strange sensation he hadn’t felt in way too long. He’s loose limbed and hope-filled. There aren’t enough words to describe it, this sensation, this combination of psychological and physical freedom. It’s a reminder that he’s more than duty, more than what he can give to others. He’s his own person and he’s allowed to want things, to need. 

It doesn’t stop him from striving to be the best he can be, but it helps him recognize it’s all right if he slips sometimes, if he needs space, or time, or kindness. 

“Are we putting it to a vote?” Stiles asks. 

“I guess we could. I reserve the right to veto anything you say, though.”

Stiles leans in, kisses a trail over Scott’s neck, soft and lingering. “What if I don’t _say_ anything?”

Scott’s about to respond, but Stiles’ phone rings, obnoxiously loud from the nightstand. Stiles picks it up with an audible grumble.

Scott idly listens to the conversation Stiles has with his dad for about a minute, but then gets up and collects his tablet from his desk. 

He settles back on the bed and thumbs through Netflix, years of experience under his belt listening to Stiles’ conversations with his dad that span for hours. But it can’t be more than three minutes later when Stiles’ tone changes to one of finality. 

Scott listens back in to hear, “Sorry Dad, I love you, but I have a different priority right now. A Scott-shaped priority.” There’s a pause and then, “You really wanna know? It involves a reclined, super speed hokey pokey.” Stiles glances at his phone and then at Scott. Stiles huffs out an indignant breath and tosses the phone onto the nightstand. “He hung up on me.”

“I wonder why. Is he scarred for life?”

“Maybe. And I didn’t even get to tell him about all the sweet, sweet sugar I was gonna be eating after this In N Out.”

Scott laughs, his stomach clenching. “God, Stiles, stop being terrible.”

Stiles puts on a faux anxious expression. If there’s a genuine tightness around his eyes, Scott won’t reference it directly. “I don’t know if that’s possible, Scotty.”

“I believe in you,” Scott says, and it’s a joke, yeah, but there’s a lot of truth there too.

Scott still doesn’t truly understand how he’s gotten to this point. The look Stiles is casting his way is so loving, like Scott’s the only thing in the universe that matters to him, and he knows Stiles won’t always be able to give him his undivided attention – he wouldn’t want him to, he can see the dangers in that a mile off – but right now he’s greedy for it anyway.

Scott pulls Stiles back down onto the bed and kisses him soundly, bracketing his entire body with his own. He presses Stiles into his sheets and elicits throaty moans and high-pitched laughter. He starts to explore what other noises he can conjure, taking his time with it. They’re still learning all the things they can do for each other. Each new find is a revelation.

“Have I told you lately that I love you?” Stiles asks a couple of hours later, sweat-soaked, pink-cheeked and clearly debauched. Scott’s full of smug pride.

“You have, but I don’t tire of hearing it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” Scott says, not because it’s generally accepted, but because it’s true.

“Are you something close, yet?” Stiles asks. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, given Scott’s already come twice in the last half hour. 

“Huh?”

“To happy.”

Scott rolls his eyes, nudges into Stiles’ side. “You know? I am. I’m something close to happy.” He kisses Stiles again, nuzzles against the soft skin below his ear, dragging his nose up so he can whisper. “I’m positively content.”

“You are the only person I know who could make that sound both incredible and incredibly sexy.”

Scott grins. “It’s a gift.”

Stiles holds his hand, kisses against his knuckles. “ _You_ are.”

Scott can’t help but admit how much he wants and needs Stiles.

For once, it doesn’t feel like too much. It feels like the right amount. It feels like enough.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Way Back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5572483) by [dancingelf88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingelf88/pseuds/dancingelf88)




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